A Drabble Out Of The Journal Of Malúir
by Sufference
Summary: The start of an autobiography written by a fan character, Malúir Silverson.


I have come across many men and women in my lifetime, most of which introduce themselves by their father's name, their lineage something they find pride in. It is hard to have that same outlook when I have not much memory of my parentage. I am told my mother was a simple hobbit, a farmer and a gardener. I hear her name mentioned from time to time, though I have guessed that 'Boffin' is not such an uncommon surname for a hobbit. My father was no one of great repute either, a simple warrior of Rohan, not a commander, not a leader, just a simple soldier. I was told that his name was 'Silvoir' which is where my name comes from, 'Silverson' close enough really, for a man I will never know.

It does not truly matter my heritage, not to me at least, since both parents had left me orphaned, by choice or by death I do not know. But I, raised an orphan, did not waste time dwelling on that which I could not change. I spent my childhood raised by an Innkeeper in the settlement of Bree. I worked there throughout my adolescence, cleaning tables in the tavern, housekeeping the guest's rooms, pretty mundane things. I heard many tales of grand adventure and glorious battle working there, men travelling back home to their wives after being called to arms, or the rouges that escaped out of kingdoms that wanted them dead. It was fun to imagine what it would be like, not the battle… and not the adventure.. but to be there, in a vast kingdom, in a stone castle, or a rocky mountainside, rugged from weather and man.

The hobbit blood in me wanted no adventure, wanted a peaceful existence, but the blood of man in me yearned for something more than a common worker's life in a tavern or and inn. At the age of 20 I set out with my trusted steed, Blackavar, and a number of well packed bags. To where, I knew not, a lone woman travelling the earth was dangerous and frightening, but I had to, something drove me to. Call it purpose, call it what you will, but I needed it, to see the grand sights I had only heard about- to smell the cold, crisp mountain air, or feel the crunch of a field of dried out wild grass beneath my feet. I wanted what no one could give me, what no stories could tell me, I wanted to be there, to live in the way I had only heard of in the tales of passing travelers.

But this was not a long lived fantasy. Not but after only a few months of travel whispers of evil rose, whispers of war and destruction, pain and pillaging. "Stay off the roads" I had heard the advice once shared, but that something much easier advised than lived. Travelling was hard enough, but to lead a horse through a tangled forest was harder.

I became quite the equestrian, well, by any hobbit's standards at least. Blackavar, my perfect steed, was not quite the size of a full grown horse, slender and more nimble than any working horse. I became better at riding, mounting my horse became easier to do. Being as short as I am I used to bring Blackavar beside a larger rock or a bent tree that I could use to step myself high enough to slide into the saddle, now I have gotten strong enough to reach up and pull myself into the saddle alone. Having to avoid main roads I found it easier to simple ride instead of walk the horse through brush and rocky terrain.

Though, I soon came to realize I could not avoid this evil forever. Dark creatures not only patrolled the roads but at night I heard their snarling, calling out to eachother, making sweeps of woodlands. Now I am not a brave one, let me assure you of that. I lost sleep, terrified of what may come under the blanket of night for me. I could not live in this way, finding myself longing for what I had left behind, a safe home, four walls, a sturdy fence to ward off danger. I looked for this, but I did not find it. Villages, towns and even the occasional city turned to ash and rubble by this dark presence, by this evil that rooted itself in Mordor. I saw many children left without parents, and parents mourning the death of their children. I stopped by these towns every once in a while, I longed to help, but I was no healer, no farmer, no smith. I had nothing to offer these people, I had only sympathy, and that gave them little comfort.

One town though, I met a peculiar fellow. A dwarf, stocky and gruff, just as I always knew dwarves to be. He was not like the dwarves I had met before, not loud or jolly, nor was he quick to anger or rash. I had heard how important family was to his kind, brother in arms were just as brothers in blood, and he had lost both his brothers in arms and his blood kin. Like all the others my heart went out to him, he many years my elder, and I owed him much respect. I sat by his bedside as he wallowed in his own pain, stubborn still, determined to convince me it was only because of a flesh wound in his leg, but I knew there was greater pain than a stab wound, no matter how deep.

I finally found something to contribute here, through lore I had heard I tried to bring a smile to his and other's faces, often playing pranks or telling jokes. I am half hobbit after all, finding joys in the simple things is what I am told we do. In my time staying there word spread of a mere band of hobbits bringing about the demise of the evil lord we had all come to fear. I had never been so proud of my lineage as I had been in that moment. What was left of the pillaged town celebrated, a feast of what little food was left was held.

Frithin, my new dwarven friend finally left his bed to come join us. We sat together and exchanged stories and tales, for the first time him seeming like (what I would presume to be) his real self, boasting of his clan's many triumphs and talents, accomplishments and bravery. As the night ended though, his spark seemed to fade, as he smoked his pipe he looked sorrowful. The family he was so eager to boast about dead, his clan all but eradicated.

I did not ask what his plans were, where he was to go. I just offered him a smile, telling him of all the wondrous places I had seen.

"Bah! Just like a hobbit to be so light hearted in such a dismal time. You wander as a lost child does from its crib." He dismissed me.

I frowned deeply at that, "There is no need to treat me with such a condescending tone, just because wandering from a crib suits me better than wallowing in bed all the day." I gave him a soft pout.

But to my surprise he chuckled. He chuckl- he LAUGHED at me. I had never been so offended as when someone laughed to my face. "I suppose that was well deserved." He admitted. I blinked slowly, trying to figure out what he had meant. He wasn't laughing at me, he was laughing at himself. I cast my eyes down for a moment, feeling bad for getting so riled up over nothing.

Needless to say, he and I spent quite a while together before he healed enough to leave the broken town. I helped him pack a few bags. Though he was small, he was strong, able to carry quite the weight.

"Another bag of food! How long do you think I will be eating this?" He threw his hands up as he opened one of the packs I had set for him.

"You said it was a four days trip!" I barked back at him.

"There has to be over twenty meals in here!" he seemed shocked, but I gave him a plain look.

"Yes..?"

There was an awkward silence between us before he roared into laughter, pointing his stubby finger at me, "You, Silverson, You are quite the hobbit, I do not care where you have dwelled."

I smiled with a hint of pride at that. I offered to travel with him back to his clan's home, just for the sake of company, and he pretended to fight with himself before allowing it. We set off North, where he had come from, but we never returned to his clan grounds. I felt safer with someone there to protect me if the need arose, and I had a confidence that he enjoyed my company more than he would admit. I know that he did not want to return to an empty home, and I was glad to offer him my friendship. After all, to both of us, friendship was as close to kinship as we would ever find.


End file.
